The Lonely Zanate

Look at the lonely Zanate,

pecking at his own enamored reflection

in the dusty window of the room

where I slept for seven days

in the house of my lover’s wife.

 

Dear lover of poetry, farmer, family man;

what happens when the lonely Zanate

pecks too hard at his own corrupted image?

When the glass shatters, shards falling

to the concrete veranda where spotted

chanchitos roam at dusk.

 

On elegant, iron–black feet, will he hop

into the room, searching the empty beds

and soiled laundry for his love,

finding only crazy ants to eat for dinner?

 

Or will he take flight toward the coast,

hearing the quiet and ancient voices of turtles

mumuring from their eggs under the sand,

following that call, relentless as the tides,

our lonely Zanate with bright black wings,

long tail, and many songs.